“Madame,” said the Chevalier, “permit me to felicitate you upon your extraordinary escape.”  This was said during the first morning.

Madame courtesied.  Her innate mockery was always near the surface.

“Will you grant me the pleasure of showing you the mission?”

“No, Monsieur le Chevalier; Monsieur de Saumaise and Brother Jacques have already offered to do that service.  Monsieur,” decidedly, “is it to be peace or war?”

“Should I be here else?”

“Else what, peace or war?”

“Neither.  I shall know no peace.  I have followed you, as I said, though indirectly.”

“Ah! then you really followed me this time?  Did you read that letter which I sent to you?”

“Letter?  I have seen no letter from you.”

“I believe I sent you one . . . after that morning.”

“I have not seen it.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.  He did not know, then?  So the comedy must go on as of old.  “So you followed me,” as if musing.

“Ah, Madame, what else could I do?”

“Why, you might not have followed me;” and with this ambiguous retort, she moved away,

The Chevalier shouldered his ax and made off toward a clump of maples where several woodsmen were at work.  His heart was gay rather than sad.  For would she not be forced to remain here indefinitely?  And whenever Father Chaumonot could spare the men, would he not be one of them to return to Quebec with her?

The poet and Brother Jacques escorted the two women about the mission; and squaws, children, and young braves followed them curiously.  When they arrived at the rude chapel, all four knelt reverently.  Piles of lumber, the harvest of the forest, lay on the ground.  The women breathed long and deeply the invigorating odor which hangs like incense over freshly hewn wood.  They drank the bubbling waters of the Jesuits’ well, and wandered about the salt marshes, Victor going ahead with a forked stick in case the rattlesnake should object to their progress.  Madame was in great spirits.  She laughed and sang snatches of song.  Never had Victor seen her more blithe.

“And it was here that Hiawatha came with his white canoe!” she cried; and tried to conjure up a picture of a venerable Indian with white hair.

“Yes,” said Brother Jacques, but without enthusiasm.  He could never hear again that name without experiencing the keenest pain and chagrin.

“Do not look so sad, Brother Jacques,” Anne requested.  “The terrible journey is over, and you were not to blame.”

Brother Jacques looked out over the water.  It was the journey to come which appalled him.  Ah, but that journey which was past!  Were he but free from these encumbering robes; were he but a man like the poet or the Chevalier!  Alas, Brother Jacques!

“Victor,” said madame, on the return to the palisade, “stay with me as much as possible.  Do not let Cevennes, D’Herouville, or the vicomte come near me alone.”